Buddy,
my Golden Retriever,
came to my recliner last night
to finish my ice cream.
He licked the bowl clean,
licked his lips and jowels,
nuzzled my hand,”Thanks”,
plodded back to his bed
by the wood stove.

Buddy
is dead.
Five years ago.
His ashes buried in the grotto
in the woods behind my house.
Marked by a narrow bluestone,
drapped by his blue collar
and his engraved silver name.
I dug the hole,
spoke the words to neighbors and squirrels,
planted bleeding heart to shade his grave.
I have knelt there in prayer,
to talk to him,
to scratch his chin,
massage his long,strong back.

So,
how did he clean that bowl
so truly I heard his slurp,
heard his dog bone shaped
vaccination tag clink the glass?

I ignore, when I can,
my inclination toward
calendar dates, clocks and straight lines.

Buddy
came through wandering waves of time
last night,
and, on some pot roast evening,
soon,
Buddy
will come again.